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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23415421">With you, at Peace</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreua/pseuds/Dreua'>Dreua</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Banana Fish (Anime &amp; Manga)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aged-Up Character(s), Because They Deserve To Be Happy, Character Study, Established Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Walk down memory lane</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 08:48:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,074</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23415421</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreua/pseuds/Dreua</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re walking the streets of what was once their home—memories, good and bad, nights spent crying behind closed doors, nights spent cursing the day they were both born.  Neither has to speak, neither knows what to say for that matter. </p>
<p>A look at what their lives could have (should have) been.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lee Yut-Lung/Sing Soo-Ling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>With you, at Peace</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyn/gifts">greyn</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Apologies in advance, first time BN writer, long time fan.  This is likely all over the place, but it really needed to come out...<br/>I love these two something fierce...</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Somewhere, something, is calling him. </p>
<p>Lilted cries that shatter through every ounce of his once well-built barrier.  Screams, pleas, pelting against the blankets—forcing chilled daggers to edge their way into the depths of his stomach, gnawing their way out through vein and bone.  He wakes with a start, eyes scanning through the haze of mid-morning light filtering past the bedroom window—brilliant off-white hues dancing across aged floorboards, illuminating the sleeping figure beside him.  Ghosting over the expanse of slender shoulders, the gentle curvature of kiss laden lips, softening the otherwise hardened expression of his companion’s face. </p>
<p>And, if he finds himself unable to stop grinning, only he would know.</p>
<p>The clock reads 6:00am, two hours later than the night before.  Two hours later than the last nightmare he happened to have.  He glances towards the window, lets a steady breath puff out into the silence, curls unsteady fingers through unruly bangs, reaches over to the huddled form beside him, gently weaves his hand through stray strands of disheveled hair.  Dusts fragments of color away from darkened eyelashes, fingers lingering hesitantly against a slightly furrowed forehead.</p>
<p>And, when his companion murmurs the softest sounds of discomfort, the entirety of their form shuddering beneath the sheets, he vows—to no one in particular—that he will protect them.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>There’s burnt toast and jam, staple meals they’d learned to survive on (when their lives were mere street fights and gang wars)—staple meals they’ve learned to put up with.  Neither like the taste of jam, overly sweet things making their taste buds itch, though neither have ever thought to actually voice such troubles.  There’s coffee brewing, overly heavy scent lingering through the two bedroom apartment, clinging desperately to their shadows as they stumble around the kitchen.</p>
<p>They make idle chit chat, adding gentle touches to each other’s shoulder, arm, hand, whenever they deem appropriate, pausing only to gather a cup or plate.</p>
<p>And, it comes off as odd, when midway through a bite of rye, they make eye contact only to glance away, the faintest hint of color overtaking their usually pale cheeks.</p>
<p>       “You’re thinking, again, aren’t you.”  It’s not a question, no, it’s an opening for a conversation they’ve been sidestepping for the past month—year, if they’re being honest.  “You can talk to me, you know.”  He takes in a strained gulp of air, works through the thoughts clouding his mind, places a gentle hand on his companion’s knuckles, squeezes.  “I’m here for you,” pauses, catches the look of confusion flashing across the other’s face, gives a wry smile back in return.</p>
<p>        “When I said we were together, I meant forever, not just some half-assed childhood whim.” </p>
<p>They’ve gone through the motions, put up with countless strained arguments, bickering back and forth until the wee hours of morning—screaming till their throats ache and neither has the heart to continue pushing.  To continue breaking apart, wrecking, whatever relationship they currently hold.  Both know their days of being on top of life are gone—both know their time to shine has long since passed.</p>
<p>Neither feel the need to admit such defeats out loud.  Neither are willing to admit that the backbone of their existence is gone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He’s stifling a moan into the palm of his hand, teeth biting down into pale skin, pupils dilating against a back-draft of sweat, inky black hair and musk.  His entire body thrums, desire itching to break free from the agonizing heat pooling deep within his stomach.  There’s a name caught tight between his lips, and he wants—lord does he want—to scream into the abyss, let the name flow freely into their shared space.  Let the world know that they’re, together, despite all odds having forever pointed against them.</p>
<p>         “Please . . ..” His own voice sounds foreign, choked.  His hands, fingers clutching, knuckles whitening against broad shoulders, shift ever so slowly down the expanse of his companion’s back.  He’s quick to dig manicured nails into the dip of a slender waist, quick to trace his gaze over the face of someone that was once hotblooded, now turned weak in the eyes of anyone but himself. </p>
<p>         “God, I love you so much.” </p>
<p>And, he finds it quite pathetic, the rate at which his body writhes beneath his companion’s solid frame, the rate at which his heart speeds up, breath ghosting out in jumbled puffs.  He silences a curse, bites into his partner’s shoulder, draws blood to the point that his tongue tastes metal.</p>
<p>          “Fuck . . ..”</p>
<p>He comes undone within seconds. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>They’re walking the streets of what was once their playground.  Hands interlocked, shoulders knocking playfully against the other’s, heads dipped low so as not to attract unwanted attention (though the likelihood of someone knowing them after years spent away, is unheard of). </p>
<p>Old habits die hard.</p>
<p>They’re walking the streets of what was once their home—memories, good and bad, nights spent crying behind closed doors, nights spent cursing the day they were both born.  Neither has to speak, neither knows what to say for that matter.  They take in the small changes, the overly exaggerated ones that make their eyebrows raise, sarcastic smiles playing across their faces. </p>
<p>They venture to places they never imagined walking into, spend hours staring at artwork and musing over what the artist might have been thinking—if there’s a greater meaning to green paint on a white canvas.  Hushed voices, scattered looks, the lot of which once meant something—the lot of which would have sent shivers down their spines during their younger years, now mean nothing.</p>
<p>         “It’s strange,” his companion brushes aside shortened locks, tone soft.  “I remember this place being so dark, claustrophobic even.”  He leaves it at that, makes to grab a slender wrist, weaves their fingers back together only to tug the taller man along. </p>
<p>          “Let’s head back, shall we?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The night air is cold, having left their bedroom window open to the outside world, and they remain huddled beneath the tattered comforter they’ve yet to agree upon throwing out.  Lithe arms draw him close to a broad chest, heart thrumming against his ear, the sound both comforting and deafening in the silence.  He can’t remember a moment prior to their having met in which he felt safe—in which he felt loved.  But now, now he feels everything he told himself he would never have, never know.</p>
<p>Now, he finds himself believing that—for once—he’s finally home.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>For the lovely grey_0_green who has taught me to push forward into fandoms/pairings that I love, but have very little confidence in portraying.  <br/>Thank you for being you &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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